Murder, My Sweet
by classydash
Summary: Son of the Godfather, Klaus is forced to fight in an illegal underground cage fighting ring. There he is the Alpha, but Mikael will do whatever it takes to bring him down, including going after his lounge singer girl, Caroline. When a Private Investigator (Alaric) starts investigating Caroline over the theft of a priceless moonstone wolf, Klaus has to make a choice: family or mate.
1. Satan Met a Lady

**Murder, My Sweet**

Chapter One: Satan Met A Lady

* * *

**1923, Chicago**

It started out like any other night.

A light breeze against the cheek, the taste of promise in the air—with alcohol, specifically whiskey, and a late night at the speak easy, filled with dames, dancing and even the pledge of dollars to be had.

Hell, one could even call it a successful night.

He had, until he'd found his partner dead.

Stumbled across his body, the poor bloke's face concealed by the slab of concrete it was pressed against.

_Damon._

It was the first thought to break through the panic, plucked from the abyss of oblivion; a tragic turn of events that he scarcely believed to be real, refused to accept. It was with this in mind that Alaric lurched forward to check his pulse, desperate for signs of life but found zip, zilch, and a whole pile of stinking nothing.

All he found was pain—his own—like a dagger through the heart, and far too many questions that hardly, if ever, sat well with any private investigator.

The when, the how, the why, but most of all, _the who._

All the major questions, save the where.

_That_ had been answered where Damon lay.

On the steps of their office door, or so said the blood stains that streaked across the ground.

* * *

It was dusty, damp and dark beneath _The Maelstrom_. Yet a strange magic seemed to fill the underground stadium.

There, in the spotlight stood two men, squared off, caught, like unfortunate victims, amidst a gladiator's cage.

The lights dimmed, the crowds roar drowned out by the scrape of leather soles against the cement ground, as both fighters circled in the dance of predator and prey. Round and round they went, in the spot-lit patch of dust. So much like animals, dressed down in nothing but shoes and shorts with strips of tape binding their fingers into lethal fists.

For a moment, one of those men studied the crowd, noting it a decent turn out, the hollers only serving to further put him in the mood to brawl, and slowly the reigning champion inclined his head, fierce gaze cutting a glare on the smugly confident smirk of his challenger.

Vision faded inward, intent focus blurring out the edges of sight as the air rippled, sizzling with the kinetic static of toxic looks laced with mutual respect.

They nodded in sync, both aware of what was about to go down, of the show they had no choice but to perform. It was a static look, filled with the flash of hope and despair and the torment of excitement and nerves all rolled into one primitive stare-down of bastardly beasts.

In fact, the whole blasted atmosphere buzzed with this keen, chiseled intention as much as it did with raw attention. There was always a certain air of intrigue about a fight, that primal energy a call to action where everything else slowed, for time was not master here but instinct; adrenaline but its furious fist, as though the arrowhead to _his_ edge.

The upper edge that is, which this hard-lipped hybrid claimed as the undefeated champion of the ring, the bastard that couldn't—wouldn't—be beaten.

But judging from the dark, eager glint of confidence highlighting his opponent's deadpan stare, the fool thought he had it in the bag. Klaus was caught between the thrill of letting him think it and putting that poor sucker out of his misery before the sorry bastard got his hopes set on something as foolish as victory.

In the end, he smiled as his nostrils flared, the look wicked and full of smug contempt that promised the swift strike of Mafioso justice. He might have been the son of the Godfather, but Mikael had never been one for picking favorites, nor did he play the game of favoritism, expecting his children to prove their worth just like all the other supes trying to make it as a Made-Man.

In the bloody cage.

Some days, he hated being thrown into the ring, as though he was nothing but some piece of shit entertainment on a stick, resented being forced to do something just because his father decreed it, or even because it was expected of them—all too aware that bets amounting to small fortunes lay on the results of his performance.

But today wasn't one of those days.

Today, he craved it with an uncanny thirst.

The blood, the pain, the feeling of sinking knuckles so deep inside a hallow cheek, bones cracked and blood laced saliva was compulsively spat out.

The feeling of being supreme, of shoving others in their damned place, of taking his own station at the top of the chain, the strongest link in the hierarchy of power; the feeling of being _the Alpha_.

It was only here, in the cage, that _he_ was king.

The one that all the others feared to face, the one that they deferred to, bowed down to in respectful submission.

It was only here that he outranked the Godfather.

Distantly—somewhere in the back of his focus—he could hear Kol announcing the fight with that tongue-in-cheek wit he liked to boast he'd invented, and then with a buzz and the slam of the cage door, it was on. Snarling with contentment, Klaus lunged forward to parry his opponent's fist with a killer blow of his own, balled knuckles making contact with a left hook cut that popped up a jaw and caused bones to groan from the sheer force of the follow through.

The impact sent a vibration of pleasure down his arm, and he wasted no time in landing his second and third attacks with consecutive precision, a quick one-two wham-bam that left his challenger wobbling with the shock of impact.

The fourth one, however, an uppercut with a swift right fist missed, striking air and causing Klaus to stagger forth, balance shot with the force of his own knock-out thrust. Stan 'The Bruiser' Reyes, whose fighting style screamed bloody opportunist, lunged at this opening and cemented a blow that busted open the hybrid's lip; the damn thing had cracked and dripped with red instantaneously.

Mortified at losing the honor of first blood to this ruffian, Klaus threw his head back in a viciously emotional growl as the latches on his temper came unhinged. Muscles tensing, he unleashed the resulting fury of that catalyst, his unique hybrid strength and speed combining to force the rookie to crash spine first against the cast iron bars.

Nails clawing into Stan's skin, Klaus held him up by a choke-hold to the neck, cementing him steady before slamming his skull back against the bars another three times and chucking the resulting disoriented mess back toward the middle of the ring with the husk of a growl, sealing his place as king of the cage.

Slowly, Klaus turned around, using this time to wipe a wrist aggressively against the side of his cracked lip, joining the attempt to quell the bleeding before spitting out a glob of crimson-coated saliva.

Adrenaline surged, pumping the taste of victory across a thick, swollen tongue that he only now realized he must have bitten when Stan landed that damned lucky fist.

Funny how quickly ones priorities could change when chained up like animals on display, and though Klaus knew he was performing exactly as expected, his enraged reactions surmounting to naught but the anticipated play on his father's part, he couldn't help but feel the tingle of pride course through his veins, couldn't help but feel that in this moment in time, as brief and fleeting and insignificant as it was, he belonged.

He was on top, and his Alpha's heart soared.

Ignoring the sweat that trickled down his face, the hybrid stalked around the fallen figure, head tossed back with a condescending chuckle as his dark calculating gaze admired the bloodied handiwork that lay in a heap of convulsions.

"Do yourself a favor kid and stay down," he taunted, accent laced with a mocking timbre, all but kicking the limp frame that shivered with the desire to rise and prove his worth on this pathetic planet. Klaus hoped he did; at least then he'd have a blasted excuse for tearing the idiot kid limb from bloody limb.

To his shamefully (or was that shamelessly?) uncanny pleasure, the Bruiser made another attempt at living up to his namesake and rose on shaky legs, crouched with one set of knuckles draped across the floor as he strategized his next move. Klaus granted him both the space and time to do so, for his wolf felt sated, content in its position as the eventual victor.

Besides, the little twerp lacked any semblance of the ability to frighten him—he was Klaus fucking Mikaelson, after all.

By his side, knuckles curled, anticipation balling fists before one was elevated, elbow dragged across a sweaty brow before his movement shifted to taunt Stan with the same hand, waggling come-at-me fingers. The bruiser lost his nerve and rushed into attack, charging Klaus with his head bent in an effort to ram his chest, the weight surprisingly managing to knock the hybrid all the way back until naked shoulders wedged against the cage.

Angered at such a turn of events, he retaliated by yanking Stan's arm and flipping the aggressor with so much force that the appendage snapped and The Bruiser yelled out in agony, squealing like a pig sent to the slaughter house. Klaus silenced him with a sharp fist to the face, followed by another, and then another; quite content to just pummel the living daylights—or at least submission—out of the arrogant twerp.

Lucky for the kid, he was saved by the buzzer.

A snarling beast, Klaus shoved the bleeding, broken-nosed boxer aside and with a stifled grunt and bared teeth, he cracked his own stiff neck in pride, followed by his knuckles as if commending himself on a job well done.

Stepping over the fallen figure, he stalked toward the cage door Elijah was already tugging open, a suit jacket carefully folded over the crook of his arm, clucking at him like some concerned mother hen. Klaus narrowed his eyes, daring his elder brother to speak up against the look of death he fashioned for him. But, of course, Elijah proved time and time again to be both sensible and tact as he decided to avoid that particular conversation for the moment and simply handed Klaus a towel and a bottle of water.

Klaus snatched up the towel and dabbed aggressively at the sweat on his brow before he threw the blasted terry cloth over the broad jut of a bared shoulder and grumpily claimed the water, guzzling it down with a head tossed back craving. But it did little to quench the blood-thirst he found nearly impossible to ignore these days.

A craving that fights always accentuated.

"What, fresh out of blood?" He chided, clearly irked as he sprayed the useless water across his face, a refreshing dose of cool clarity against the rage that still boiled within him, before he abandoned the bottle with a forceful shove of the product against Elijah's chest. Still, he made no fuss as his eldest surviving sibling helped him fit on the jacket, shrugging into the high-quality blazer with practiced ease.

Elijah didn't look impressed. But then again, he never truly did. "He's requested an audience," his half-brother stated, tone even but laced with the tremor of doubt.

Like he knew it wasn't good.

"Doesn't he always?" Klaus responded, taking a page out of Kol's book and acting seemingly more interested in soaking up the attention of the crowd (which had notably gone wild with his newest victory, yet another notch on his tally of battles won) than Mikael's ever-present scorn.

"He said it was urgent, Klaus," Ever tactful, Elijah tried again to express the seriousness of the situation, fighting through frustration with patient smiles. "You know better than to blow him off." Klaus didn't look concerned, and given Elijah's response, his intuitive brother had discerned as much. "He might not have created your physical body, brother, but that only gives him twice the reason to eliminate it. You would be wise not to push your luck over such trivial matters."

Klaus waved him off, lacking concern like cats lacked obedience, but nevertheless resentfully slunk his way up the hidden staircase like the good, obedient son he'd often strove to be, toward the main floor of _the Maelstrom_.

* * *

Situated like a boss in an oblong room, tucked away in the back of _the Maelstorm_ sat the Godfather, who cast a discerning eye around at the goons spread densely around the poker table and reclined nonchalantly back in his chair, lighting a Cuban.

Across from him, two of his best boys bickered, each trying to swindle the blame onto the other, but Mikael paid them no heed, beyond a sharp hand gesture meant to silence them.

_They_ were none of his concern at the moment, however.

He was not by any means a friendly man and carried a near constant calculating look about him. To put it bluntly, Mikael commanded respect with every asserted breath and confident gesture, at the fear of harsh penalty for those who failed to comply—with haste at that.

If you thought death was said punishment, your imagination, my friend, was sadly lacking.

Mikael didn't lack such creativity, not in the least, nor did his punishments amount to such mercifully swift ends.

Such was the fate that had befallen the poor, pitiful cad currently strung up from the ceiling by his wrists so that his toes barely scraped the ground.

"So let me get this straight," the Godfather began after some time, while tapping out the ash from his cigar in the air, unconcerned about the mess; the janitors would get it later. It was what they were paid for. "You _lost _the entire shipment of hooch because of some damn dame?" He raised a quizzical eyebrow, forehead wrinkling as if completely flabbergasted by this statement.

"But Boss—" The strung up sod began, desperate for salvation to clear, as he claimed, his framed name.

"Baloney!" Mikael hollered, fed up with his ridiculous attempt at explaining the situation and silenced the stuttering idiot by suddenly rising from the leather comfort of his chair and slamming his cigar-less fist down on the table. "Do you really think I care how great her gams are?" Mikael's nostrils flared, and with a curt nod to the goon he'd nicknamed the Executioner, he gave him the go ahead to press the searing hot cattle brander against the tender side of the suspended man's wrist.

"Tell me," the Godfather began in that chillingly cold tone etched with pride, each syllable stressed more than the last. "_Who_ has my booze?"

Apparently, the rat didn't speak soon enough for the intimidating older man, who again indicated for the Executioner to press the flesh burning metal against the skin of the victim suffering through this hard edged interrogation.

This time, the cattle brander shaped like a capitol M was fried against the worthless hack's neck.

The shriek that followed was excruciating, the cry of a soul stained with desperation and agony all rolled into one hot mess of bone chilling tenors. Somewhere, amidst this song of piercing pain, were the words that left Mikael reeling with rage. "The Coppers', Sir." The bound man writhed and twitched in his shackles, the convulsions uncontrollable. "The Coppers' 'ave it."

"So says you." Most men would have cursed at this knowledge, but Mikael was no stranger to bad news. He merely narrowed his eyes into fine slits and puffed slowly on his Cuban thoughtfully, as though trying to suck answers out from the finely ground-up and fatly rolled Tobacco.

"Lower him," he commanded unexpectedly by leeway of snapping at the two made men who'd been bickering throughout the whole questioning charade.

Neither of them moved to obey, a fact that caused Mikael's lip to curl in irritation as he turned his glare their way.

"Do _not_ make me repeat myself, boys," he warned, utterly exasperated.

Where was decent help when you needed it?

Klaus, as if by cue, showed up with heels dragging in the doorway, shoulders slouched and jaw slack with a certain level of unease. He didn't speak. Hell, he probably would have gone unnoticed, save for the way the floorboards squeaked protest under his dappling weight.

At the creak, Mikael's head shot toward the entrance way, a discerning frown tightening narrow lips even thinner. The disgust he held for this bastard son of his wife's went above and beyond that of even the disapproving looks he'd just spared for the mole currently tortured by the hot end of cast iron.

"Your silence wins you no favors here, boy," the Godfather stated, tone distant and dripping malice. Again, he ashed out his cigar in the air with the flick of an indifferent wrist and tossed a sharp, belittling glare Klaus's way with the flippant comment. "You're late."

Stuck somewhere between a terrified child and defiant young man, Klaus Mikaelson stood with an undeniable amount of courage in the doorway—few, least of all his own children, held the backbone to stand up to the Don.

Then again, Klaus's shoulders were curled inwards, back hunched and tense as if in subconscious defense. Not only that, but he held his gaze cast down, as if defeated in this argument. The man who'd only just reined King of the cage was rendered down to a nervous child and responded in kind, with a slow shrug of hesitation.

"I thought I was supposed to make it look like they held half a chance…" The hybrid said after some time, hiding behind this excuse with the innocence of a boy just trying for acceptance.

That of his father's, or the closet thing he had to one.

Such was the constant quest for approval he'd never gain.

"Don't get lippy with me, boy," Mikael said, condescending in his refusal to call Klaus by any given name. "You do as instructed. That means if I call for you, I expect you here._Pronto_." He tossed a quick, meaningful glance toward the quivering bastard still tied up before sharing a look with the Executioner that left the Godfather chuckling thickly. "Or meet the same fate as Palooka here."

Klaus rubbed at his chin, the one that dead-beat boxer had managed to hit, as though only just now noting its soreness. The action caught Mikael's attention, who scowled disapprovingly in direct response. "And learn to clean yourself up. So long as you carry my name, you won't be tarnishing it by nosing around like some damn dirty dog."

Though on the verge of protesting that cleaning up first would have only made him arrive later, Klaus thought better of it and held his tongue clenched between teeth close to biting it off with the effort of such internal restraint. He remained silent, which apparently wasn't the right answer either.

"You're a disrespectful son of a bitch, you know that?" Mikael quipped before taking a long, bitter drag on the cigar, puffing out a pattern of smoke rings as if he wasn't cutting down a child he'd once called his. "Here's a thought," he started, poking the air in emphasis with his smoking blunt. "Why don't you make yourself bloody useful for once and go inform your _half_-brother at the Nightingale that the pigs have confiscated their next shipment of bootleg?"

It was an order, not a question, and one Klaus met by blinking back the trace of tears in his eyes.

He refused to let Mikael see such a sign of weakness.

"Yes, Father."

The Godfather glared hotly and with his lips drawn in that ever present scowl. "It's Mr. Mikaelson to you, kid."

Klaus pivoted on a frustrated heel and left, before that moisture in his tear ducts broke loose. That didn't stop Mikael from hollering after him, determined to inflict more mental damage. "And for the love of my reputation, put a blasted shirt on. Mikaelsons' don't walk around like animals."

* * *

"I don't know how you can call yourself a flapper with hair that long," Katherine stated with the air of envy. "If I were you, I'd cut it, but since you lack the nerve, the least you could do is pin it up higher." The former star of the show went on, genuinely, as if actually intending to be helpful rather than donning the fur coat of bitch with a capitol B.

"I don't see what's so special about you." Cattish in tone, the small yet intimidating girl sauntered toward Caroline and leaned over her shoulder until their eyes caught in the vanity's mirror. "Sure, you dazzled Sage in a dead house." Kat snatched up Caroline's tube of blood red lipstick and slowly applied it, smacking her painted lips dramatically when she was finished. "But all the seats where empty ... I mean, can you even sing in front of an audience?" She cocked a hip like a boss and winked, all playful and coy. "It's hardly one and the same, I'll have you know."

Smug, like a kitten that had caught her first mouse, Kat raised a pointed, perfectly plucked and penciled eyebrow in mocking question. "Oh, but don't worry, I'm _sure_ you'll do fine." She held the tube back out for Caroline to take and twisted with a kiss in the air, all whilst twirling a single curled lock of dark hair in the process. "I mean, you're a blonde. Everyone _loves_ blondes," she purred, barely avoiding the urge to roll her eyes in irritation.

But then, with a smile painted fake, she stuck out a hip and drew a pose all elbows and tush. "All you got to do is wear some revealing little number and wiggle those girls around." Kat laughed, amused by anything that insulted her competition.

Caroline, who was already nervous to grace the stage as the central act for the first time, tried to drone out the jealous starlet she'd replaced by mentally rehearsing the lyrics and remembering to breathe.

Sage, the red head bombshell that was in charge of all the girls (and had been the one to take a chance on Caroline when no one else would), popped her head in suddenly, and the five-minutes-to-curtain-call warning fell from her lips. "Five strokes of the short hand till show-time girls." She smiled freshly, before winking in a joking way that, in actuality, was utterly dead serious. "Don't you dolls make me kill y'all by missing that curtain."

With that said, she was gone, and Caroline was left sinking into a massively messy pit of anxiety.

To be frank, the human who had relied on a little white lie concerning her age to even get hired here in the first place, was still surprised that her name had been on the top of the list after only a week. She'd had to read it over and over again before it finally sank in that it was actually her.

"You listen here, Katherine. I didn't intend for this to happen and I'm nervous enough without you razzing me on like that!" Caroline snapped back, her buttons finally pushed too far as she eyed the length of her hair with growing concern and wondered if maybe Kat was right in assessing it too long.

Caroline eyed the former star's hair; it shone like ebony and was cropped in a short bob that definitely fit within the definition of an empowered woman. In other words, a Flapper.

With a sigh that made her on-again off-again friend smile in success, Caroline began furiously unpinning her blonde curls, only to re-pin them even shorter. Kat might not have been nice about it, but the girl held a point.

She could hardly have the confidence in the part if she didn't feel she looked it.

The last thing she needed was to feed her poor noggin with more doubts than sense.

* * *

Klaus stalked into the Nightingale with an edge to his step, swagger ridden harsh with the leftover resentment of his encounter with Mikael. His right hand goonie, Gage Declan, by his side meeting every arrogantly pissed step stride for stride. The grifter at the top of his trade wouldn't be here if it wasn't for his inside knowledge discerning what his Bossman wanted before Klaus even knew he wanted it.

Though he'd come with a purpose, it was forgotten like a lost thought amidst a sea of plenty when a voice so pure and sweet struck some inner chord submerged deep within, like the very heart-suspending strings were plucked with its angelic precision. Curiosity got the best of his beast, which cemented his body down as a gaze so steely blue it cut metal snapped immediately to the source, discerning with the element of surprise that such an immaculate voice belonged to a creature befitting its beauty.

A woman.

A human woman at that, barely more than a girl.

It was a rare, poetic moment for the vicious hybrid, one of those few times so tortured a soul could find harmony amidst so pleasing a composition of details. After all, who said serial killers couldn't stop to smell the roses, or appreciate the color of a butterfly's wings? It didn't dull the edge to the blade of his fury, but rather those sprinkles of light highlighted just how shaded his soul genuinely was.

Shaded like a stocking's coal.

Gage, intuitive enough to read all the fine, micro facial adjustments of his lord and master, cast the man he would follow past death's door a sidelong glance and smirked, with an all-knowing twinkle dancing humorous eyes bright. "Ah, the fresh meat ... She's quite the little Sheba, ain't she, boss?" Declan said with a look that implied far more than it should have dared.

The cheeky bastard knew he could get away with it, but that didn't stop Klaus from fashioning him with the look of pure death.

A look that only made Gage shrug, an action that was truly his signature move. "Well, it's true though, ain't it?" Few had the gall or the gumption to address Klaus this way, beyond his family and should any other sorry soul attempt it, they'd find themselves a grave six feet under.

But Gage, for all his cheek, was a rather charming sort and perhaps Klaus was just that desperate for someone to call a friend; but whatever the case, he was much more than just your average minion. The hybrid actually trusted him.

Klaus, however, was much too busy studying the humbly nervous performance of the bee's knees of song larks, mesmerized by the sweet, relaxing voice and could not help but quirk a smirk at the thought that perhaps there was some truth behind that old wives' tale, the one stating that music tamed the wild beast.

Then again, he was _far_ from tame.

Caroline, unbeknownst to the fact that gangsters were currently discussing her, had only just begun to find the confidence to own the act and really sell it. Though she still felt about as nervous as someone ready to heave upchucks, she persevered with nothing more damning than white knuckling the very microphone that amplified her caressing dulcet tones across the room so effectively that her own voice echoed back at her.

_Some others I've seen_

_Might never be mean_

_Might never be cross_

_Or, try to be boss_

"Boss ... Hey, boss!" Gage repeated, biting back the laughter that gaily played out in focused cores, bemused despite himself. "Earth to the Big Cheese. Dayum, Sir. You'd think her dress was bacon the way you're smackin' those lips." That caught the Original's attention, who turned on him so fast that Gage actually flinched, although the motion was minor. Knowing he'd pushed a little too close to the edge of Klaus's temper this time, Declan held up his hands in earnest innocence. "Whoa. Hold up. Don't get a fellow wrong. If she's the cherry you want to top your float, then by all means, allow me to set up your serving."

Klaus was ready to strangle the chap; whether he was a blimey good right-hand man or not was irrelevant when his mood struck sour. But the kid was smart to back pedal with that promise, and with a snarl, he waved the minion off to go make his damned ass useful. Displeased by the show of sass, Klaus was prepared to continue in his silent sulking before that blasted movingly sweet voice came out again, this time embellished with equal notes of confidence and husky hesitation, and he growled with need.

_But, they wouldn't do_

_For nobody else gave me a thrill_

_With all your faults, I love you still_

Caroline wasn't sure what made her eyes drift to him; only that every time she'd tear her eyes away, she'd only catch herself stealing another peek from beneath a heavy set of lashes that drooped nervously low as she sang, strangely shy. Despite the Nightingale being packed, the typical night rush attendance, there was something about this bizarre, intimidating and deathly handsome figure that made her belly flop and her insides sizzle—which made it all the more impossible to look away.

She felt her tongue dry up till it felt thick and floppy in her mouth and swallowed repetitively to try and bypass that discomfort, focusing instead on making that swollen dry muscle form the words to her song. Focusing on anything but how he was somehow making her feel—even from this distance—like she sang only for him.

It was hard to look away after that, like something was unnaturally compelling her to watch him, her mysterious stranger with the whimsical dimples and that hellishly confident, dominating stance.

_It had to be you, wonderful you_

_It had to be you_

* * *

Alaric paced across the smoky office and crushed out the burning butt of his cigarette on the marble ashtray which held permanent residence on his desk, slinking back into the red backed chair, only to kick the gumshoes of polished loafers up against the rich cherry wood and emit a long sigh heavily ridden with unease. A few minutes ticked by on the wall clock as he did this, before his shoulders suddenly pitched forward in a downward slouch and an arm swiped the cluttered items on his desk askew (and clean off) with anguish.

"Who'd have thunk I'd miss you buddy?" He said, mostly just to the silence that surrounded him and, finding it deafening, reached down to tug open the desk drawer, fishing a bottle of whiskey and then a tumbler out, before pouring the former into the latter with such a lack of distinction it spilt in sloppy, sticky gobs.

But he didn't give a shit.

No. Not hardly.

All that Alaric cared about was numbing the pain of loneliness by drinking with abandon, when alas to his dismay the little bell strung up over the frosted glass paneled door dinged the arrival of another. Carefully, although sloppy enough to spill, the Private Eye set the half empty glass down on the recently de-cluttered desk and sighed thickly through whistling nostrils as he looked up to see the damnedest fine dame he'd ever done seen.

She pulled off her gloves in a way that made him lick his chapped lips and strolled with such swagger he sat straight up and instinct called for him to realign his wrinkled tie.

"Hello, darling," she cooed, unbuttoning the top gold button on her coat, "would you, by chance, be the capable Detective Spade?" At his curt nod, lips painted the brightest of reds quirked into a smug smirk, delivered with a wink. "Perfect," she purred, rolling her R's and daintily positioning herself in the seat adjacent to his, purse clutched like a proper lady in her lap as she awarded him her rapt attention. "You absolutely must help me, for I trust no one else to. You see, it concerns a sensitive matter of great importance."

Alaric began to shake his head, only able to think of how Damon would have fawned and flirted with this fine lady, and swallowed at the surge of memories of such happening in the past. His partner had always been a sucker for a pretty pair of lips on a sweet heart shaped face. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. 'Fraid I just can't do—" He got no further in this polite refusal before she was glaring hotly, all cross and disappointed.

"Ain't nothing yous can say to change my mind, babydoll. I'm about ready to give up the practice," Alaric stated as delicately as he could, given how his sour, rotten mood dictated that he wanted to tell her to scram and shove the pretty bird out so he could return to his mourning and wallowing grief.

"Nothing? Oh, really?" Strangely, this only seemed to amuse the lady who leaned over legs crossed at the ankles to fixate him with an all knowing stare, one that sparkled with a certain note of playful mischief. "Your confidence in such is flattering, but you may just want to reevaluate that refusal to come to a damsel in distress's aid."

Alaric had returned to his drink, having shouldered the note of indifference in proper etiquette in front of a potential client, seeing as he was not looking for any new cases, and drowned it back while issuing her a stubborn glare. "I stand to my point, Miss. Now if you'd kindly leave ..."

Rolling her eyes, she rose with a curt swiftness that implied she found him an idiot and a shrug that seemed to say your-loss. However, even though she strutted in heels that clicked to the door and went so far to tug it open, when she made to move through it, the enigma of a woman lingered there a moment and then turned. "Isobel would be so very disappointed in you."

With both drink and surprise caught on his tongue, Alaric sputtered unattractively and rose awkwardly to his feet. "Wait, Miss! What do you know of my wife?" His face rearranged in so many emotions even he wasn't quite sure how to feel, although amidst the masses stood out curiosity and skeptical distrust. "Who are you?" He questioned at last, to which she merely smiled and said, "A friend."

* * *

**AUTHORS' NOTES: **Well, there you have it, the first chapter. The second chapter should be up by tomorrow or the day after. I'm sure you noticed we changed Alaric's last name. This wasn't a mistake but an intentional choice to pay homage to some classic Film Noirs. We'll do this with a few other characters that make appearances also, for various reasons. Please, please, please let us know what you think of this first installment (the good, the bad) because we slaved over this chapter trying to make everything perfect. How was it paced? What do you think of the plot so far? The concept in general? Was the writing too wordy and poetic? Could it be more poetic? Your comments, whatever they are, will be used and considered in shaping upcoming chapters, so make sure to state your mind now or forever hold your peace. xD.


	2. Partners In Crime

**Murder, My Sweet**

Chapter Two: Partners In Crime

* * *

_A friend._

Alaric scowled, the distrust growing heavier now as he leaned over his desk, hunching up on cockishly sprawled elbows, the annotation of his distress, and so the surly detective studied her, still for the moment before proceeding. "I don't know who you think you are, Miss, but that line ain't gonna fly here." He shook his head at that and bent to retrieve the ashtray that he'd hastily shoved to the floor just moments previous, scowling at the sight of all the ash and crunched up half burnt butts whiting out his Persian rug; the only comfort against the cold hard floors his fortunes afforded—and only then because it was a heirloom passed down from his mother.

She was gone now, just like his wife and now Damon. Ric was beginning to see a pattern here that he didn't particularly like.

Loneliness was the fiercest bitch of the fated lot.

He missed the days when he had a friend.

That vain as ass partner had been the closest thing he'd had to one.

Ric's eye twitched—involuntarily of course, with the hint of a tear prickling the corner. To disguise it, he swallowed with a rough curtness that resembled a throat clearing. "Lookie here, miss. I don't work for no ma'dams that don't kindly provide their names - got in a bit of a rough spot with that once. Turns out the little misses was trying to get me to accidentally off her own blasted husband." Setting the ashtray back town onto the table, in a motion that metaphorically represented the regaining of his nerve, Alaric leaned back into his chair and casually fished out another cigarette from the little silver clipped case he kept tucked behind a breast pocket.

Normally, the gentleman in him would have required he ask the lady's approval prior to lighting it—but in this case his mood was just sour enough that he hoped it would merely force her out. The smoke, that is; that puffed up in fat billowing rings.

To his dismay, she asked for a light to the long, slender cig suspended in one of them fancy-smancy cigarette holders she took out of her clutch, a long black one that supposedly extended the smoke further from the face. For a moment, he speculated over the reason for that, until he settled with the simple conclusion it was in attempt to avoid the smell from clinging to their hair and to get it past the brim of those ridiculously large hats that were in fashion.

It was an arbitrary thought to be sure, but sometimes raw agony did that to the body. Encouraged the production of ridiculous notions if only because it was overrun by the intensity of emotions, where all sense and sensibility was left on overdrive.

"Ms. Wonderly will do for now." The woman with the gold-buttoned white coat stated. "Until we're better acquainted, and I'm sure you're clever enough to discern that, as it implies, there is no husband to speak of, much less one I want to kill." Ms. Wonderly lifted a single hand, her left one, and waved clearly nude fingers. "See detective? No ring." Spoken a la wink, the lady mirrored his confident nonchalance and promptly stood, strutting the three steps to his desk, before leaning over it, the black tip of her elegant extender perched on the fat curve of a blood red lip. "Now be a dear and help a lady out."

With a scathing glower tucked behind a thin bed of lashes, Alaric whistled hotly out of his nose the disgruntled feeling this gave him and plucked her a match that he struck, before arching closer, matching eye for eye. Daring her into a staring contest that she evidently lost when she turned to puff dramatically on the elegant stick, expertly blowing out a tight thick ring of smoke that penetrated his nearly dissipated one floating haphazardly above them, like some shield of smoke and mirrors.

"You don't have to be married to cause a man problems," the P.I. pointed out with an unimpressed shrug that rolled into the movement of reaching out and tugging firmly on the little gold chain that dangled from the classic green desk lamp, tilting the long horizontal green shade just so, to cast a spotlight on her. "Now Ms. Wonderly, if you'd kindly tell me what you're doing here, I would be much obliged," Alaric uttered in a tight, thin tone, clearly on the end of his seat where his patience was concerned. It might have been politely worded, but his intonation was not one to be messed with.

He wouldn't take no for an answer.

* * *

"Stefan," Klaus called, placing a steady hand on the newest member of the family's shoulder. "Just the man I wanted to see." Having finally pulled himself away from watching the pretty little songbird, Klaus had navigated his way toward the bar, halfheartedly looking for his brother, that old dull coot who was a constant thorn in his side, the one with a few choice objects stuck up that mother-kissing asshole. Or at least Klaus could think of a few choice objects he wouldn't mind shoving up there. "You seen Finn?" He asked with a quick glance down the bar, putting the Sheba whose sultry tones had driven such lustful imaginings through his mind aside as he earnestly tried to focus on business.

Elijah was right; he really didn't need anymore reasons for Mikael to hate him.

Just existing was enough.

"Uh, I think that feisty redhead who acts like she runs the place dragged him off to explore one of the backrooms ..." Stefan trailed off, yet cast a few pointless stares around the lounge regardless. "If you know what I mean ..."

_Bloody typical_, Klaus thought and scowled, half tempted to go play cock blocker and interrupt the not-so-prude-prude in the act. Ironically, Sage had found her way to fame in the ring, just like he had, and despite the fact that he wasn't Finn's biggest fan, or Sage's for that matter, he could respect her own inner animal, just as he could respect her womanly needs.

Speaking of animalistic needs ...

"Who's the dame?" Klaus said suddenly, as a means of distraction and a silent fuck-you to the big cheese. He'd get the job done in his own time; the night was still young and Finn would be around—why waste energy looking for him?

"I see a good twenty dames from where I sit, so you're going to have to be more specific than that, Boss." Stefan, despite failing to provide an intuitive answer, was nonetheless amused by this. "The damn fine one, who else?" Klaus shot back whilst rolling steely blue eyes. Stefan quirked an eyebrow and changed his answer to a measly, "Okay, ten then." Fashioning the other man a sternly unimpressed look, the cage fighter rolled back a powerful set of shoulders and gestured toward the stage. "The blasted song bird, you funny man."

Stefan gave a small "Ah," and nodded his head as if in understanding, with the sort of cocky smile that suggested he'd known that all along. The chap was lucky Klaus was in a good mood, because he let him get away with it and just pressed forth in his stubborn quest to learn everything about this ray of light that had brightened up his dark day.

"She ain't anyone's Molly, is she?" Klaus, quite casually, took up a seat beside his buddy and spun around to recoil back on his elbows, ones that stretched out on either side behind him as he shot another shameless glance up at the stage. Hell, even if she was - someone's Molly, that was - he hardly suspected it'd matter. She'd be his all the same. Content to just watch her wrap up her show-stopping act, he felt a twinge of disappointment as she shyly duck off behind the thick, red velvet curtain beyond his sight-line. Only then did he cast a sly, wicked grin toward the man who'd grown oddly silent. He took that as a good sign. "No? Fantastic. Spread the word that she's officially off-limits."

Stefan meanwhile had flagged down the bar's tender and ordered two drinks - both Whiskey on the rocks and was retrieving them as the Mob Boss laid his claim. Stefan chuckled richly as he surrendered one of the drinks, an outstretched olive branch. "Word to the wise, I wouldn't let that spitfire hear that if I were yous' Boss." Klaus took both the drink and this statement as a challenge and shot back the first while formulating plans to make her his, but to Stefan he just said. "I'm the Alpha, and I've claimed her."

In his mind, it was as simple as that.

"Caroline," Stefan filled in for him, impish in tone. "Her name's Caroline. Caroline Forbes." Sipping at his own drink as he calmly studied his friend of sorts, the newly made man just gave a shrug that he coupled with a hint of a bemused smile. "I just don't reckon she'd be okay with that." Hell's fire. He knew she wouldn't be. Caroline was a feisty one, or so he'd come to learn in the short time Mikael had him stationed here and the handful of conversations he'd had with her.

"Baloney. Dames want to be claimed ... 'Sides, I have a good feeling I can manage to, shall we say, compel her to agree." His eyes turned dark then, riddled with the trace of lust and the glimmer of a megalomaniac. Oh yes. She'd be his, one way or another.

It was that thought that turned his smirk a shade darker, nearly as black as his soul; it was also a look Stefan didn't miss. He almost felt sorry for Caroline. She seemed like such a sweet girl, the sort who shouldn't be involved with the Mob. "Whatever you figure, Boss ..." Stefan trailed off for a moment, swishing back the last biting sip of his drink before he found the back bone to continue. "and Hell, it might just be my two cents, but for what it's worth, that doll just seems to be one of them Feminist types. They don't tend to take the whole possession concept as the bee's knees, if you know what I'm getting at."

The hybrid scowled, lips quirking into a threatening line. "Mark my words, mate. That dame is as good as mine," he commented, utterly stubborn and forever unperturbed.

"Which dame?" At the sticky sweet accent that came purring out, all sing-song and yet haughty, Klaus's nostrils flared in silent frustration as Stefan's eyes swept appreciatively up and down the new arrival and whistled.

"Rebekah," the hybrid said, his own accent dragging out her name in a silkily annoyed tone as he turned to give her a cold eye. "You know you shouldn't be here." He delivered with a glare as hot as the one she matched it with, although it should be noted she also blew raspberries like some kind of immature brat, her tongue stuck out solely to openly mock him while his lips merely tightened in raw aggravation.

Would she never grow up? Between her and Kol, Klaus couldn't be sure who was worse. Or more childish.

"None of your b-" Klaus began, only to be unceremoniously interrupted by a hair flip and roll of eyes so melodramatic he had to arch a questioning brow. "Don't give me that _it's-none-of-my-beeswax_ nonsense. You're my brother and I adore you, and as your baby sister, I'm entitled to these sorts of things, naturally the most important being you're officially obligated to sate my curiosity over any and all gossip." Rebekah grabbed onto his arm, her gloved hand curling tightly around his forearm, clawing at it with her unnatural strength. "So tell me!" Rebekah whined, sure to fashion him with a big old pout and pleading eyes.

It didn't work.

That sort of trick never worked on him.

"First of all, I was going to say business," he began, plucking her fingers off one by one with gentle restraint, "And second of all, that big nose of yours isn't very becoming, Bekah. Best keep it out of my _beeswax_, as you so _eloquently_ put it." His temper flared, Mikael having already pushed his patience to it's near edge. Rebekah was walking a fine tight rope as it was without her little tantrums and so he shoved her hand toward Stefan with the firm instructions to get her home.

Stat.

But more importantly, _safe_.

Though he didn't voice it, he gave Bekah a cold look that clearly communicated he better not get blamed for this, though he knew he already would; god forbid if anything happened to her ... He'd get a lashing even Jesus hadn't seen, with his so-called taking accountability for human sin.

Such was the price of being Mikael's scapegoat of choice.

It didn't matter what went wrong, or whose fault it really was.

He was always to blame.

Klaus cursed and fashioned the turn of his glare onto the male Rebekah was none too subtly appreciating in silent observation, as if having just taken note of his existence._Horsefeathers. Just what I need._ As in, not at all. "Rebekah, you are to go straight home with this escort. No diddy-dallying, do you understand me?" No dallying of any sort for that matter. With that, Klaus gave Stefan a look that promised he'd rip out his liver by tooth and claw if he so much as thought of getting frisky with his baby sister. Or let anyone else attempt it. "Get her home, Stefan, and for the love of God make sure nobody sees you with her."

"Hey, you can't have dibs on all the blonde babes, that ain't fair—" Stefan didn't get another word out, before he was choked silent with a hand that damn near crushed his wind pipe. Struggling for air, he gave a little gasped yelp as if asking what that was for, uselessly kicking out his legs that were now suspended a good few inches off the ground. "She's my _sister,_ mate. So I'll say it again, get her straight home." Klaus glared, glowering down in the that's-your-sister shocked wide eyes of the enforcer, who'd only just recently been welcomed into the family. Slowly, as if to emphasize his point, the cage brawler loosened one finger at a time, before relenting on the choke hold and pushing the man aside.

"Now scram."

Then, just as Stefan was guiding a protesting Bekah away from the bar with one hand on her back and the other on her arm, Klaus growled and reached out to draw Stefan to a brisk halt with an intimidating hand on the other's bicep. "Watch it. I only give you permission to touch her elbow in the crook of yours, and for fuck's sake, don't let a blasted soul see you." He could only imagine what Mikael would have done to the chap if he heard word someone was sneaking around with his prized and precious daughter.

Much less someone who'd recently been given the moniker _the Ripper_. If there was one thing you could count on with Mafia men, it was how ferociously protective they were over what they construed to be theirs—nothing more so than that which they viewed as their legacy. In other words, their family.

Family was off-limits.

That is, if you were actually considered a part of it and not just some bastardly tarnish on the name.

Klaus growled as he turned away from his comrades, refusing to let them see his flinch of emotion, and ordered up another stiff one with every intention of finding Finn and getting the blasted errand over and done with.

The sooner it was done, the sooner he'd be free of the Godfather's leash.

He despised nothing more than being contained, restricted ... held back like some bloody caged creature.

It was why he was such a fierce animal in the cage.

Call it instinct.

Survival instinct.

* * *

"Why, I came looking for the finest help this side of Chicago. What else?" Ms. Wonderly said with that same flirtatious air she seemed to do everything. "That _would_ be you, wouldn't it, precious?" She cooed in a tone Ric despised. In fact, Alaric despised everything about women like this. Women who tried to play people on a stick like some damned puppet with their blatant sexuality tossed up on a platter. Well, he wasn't about to just keel over and obey her every request.

But he did want to know what else she knew about his wife.

The one he'd presumed dead.

"Says you, but I still need more details before I'm buying it, sweetheart," Alaric said, lighting up yet another cigarette. He didn't often tend to chain smoke like this, but everyone grieved in their own way and this just happened to dull the edge of his.

Alaric ran a hand through his disgruntled hair and looked longingly at his beloved Fedora that hung from the coat rack by his door, the one Damon had gifted him with on his last birthday, before bitterly looking up at the woman who supposedly needed his help.

A woman Damon would have loved.

_God save me._

"So what's the problem, sugar? You going to get to it or are you going to keep beating 'round the bush all day? Might I remind you that my partner's dead? I don't exactly have time for this game of cat and mouse, you hear?"

* * *

"C'mon, Ms. Mikaelson. You heard the man." Stefan smiled, cursing his rotten luck that she had to be his boss's sister. Not to mention the Don's daughter. She was fine alright, but he wasn't looking for a death sentence, no matter how attractive the girl.

"Time to get you home." This seemed to sate Klaus, who waved them off after a few idle threats and the not-so-subtle promise to remove his dick should it get any big ideas concerning Rebekah.

Stefan had gotten the hint, but unfortunately for him, Rebekah seemed to have ideas of her own.

"Oh come on. He's just saying that cause he has to. If he was really concerned, he'd have taken me home himself," the blonde vampire pointed out and then shrugged casually. "Klaus is very protective like that; possessive too now that I come to think about it."

Stefan marveled at her confidence. He'd rarely met a woman with so much. Even them Flappers were generally timid when it came to stating their opinions to strangers and he had to admit, she had a point. How could he not give her that?

But Stefan still didn't think it was a very good idea to stick around this joint with her.

Not when Klaus said otherwise. "Look, I don't exactly have the luxury of making up my own rules as I go, so how about you do a fellow a favor and let me take you home?"

Going off the displeased slackening of curled lips and tightening of a pinched forehead, she wasn't pleased with this. It was evident quite quickly to Stefan that this was a woman used to getting her own way. "You don't want to get me in trouble, now do you?" He asked, more softly this time, ever hopeful.

Rebekah pouted, huffing up her cheeks with arguments. But he was cute, and Klaus never assigned her attractive bodyguards. None of the Mikaelson men did for that matter. And mother was just as bad. It was almost like Esther never wanted her children to be happy. It just wasn't fair!

Just like it wasn't fair that she never got to have any fun. The boys all got to go to the clubs, so why couldn't she? Heavens, it wasn't like she wasn't old enough. Try a few centuries over old enough. Not to mention she had no need for a bodyguard. She was an Original, one of the most powerful beings on the planet, but everyone always seemed to conveniently forget that.

"Oh please, Stefan. It is Stefan, isn't it?" She cooed, clutching onto the brawny curl of his bicep and all but dragging her heels as he tried—unsuccessfully, she'd have you know—to escort her to the entryway.

"Dance with me!" The blonde pleaded, quite skilled with the sad-eyed expression she then fashioned on him. It cut him to the core and made him growl. Stefan threw up an arm, running a hand through the slicked back hair and glanced back over his shoulder toward the bar, relieved to see Klaus distracted at least.

"Come on, Stefan. No one ever lets me have any fun! Please? I promise to be good and go straight home after." She won him over with those pleading eyes then, and soon enough, he was sighing thickly and spinning her around under his arm. "Fine, you win. But just the one dance and then I'm taking you straight home."

It was a statement, not a question.

He really wasn't looking to move into a rental property six feet under.

* * *

Caroline waited until the attractive man in white was alone before making her approach, nervous despite that funny man's encouraging words. He was just dying for an introduction he'd said but was too damned shy to talk to her. At least that's what his friend—loyal wingman no doubt—claimed. Somehow Caroline found that a hard line to believe. Just looking at that man, all propped back against the bar like a boss ... Well, it didn't seem like anything terrified him, much less a wee girl in a sparkling dress and heels.

The flapper swallowed, regretting her hastily stated _of course I'm not afraid_ when his little friend had subtly challenged her nerve. Hell-fire, she was still steaming over his comment that she was just acting a flapper, and had made a beeline toward the one he'd called Klaus, all storming and determined to prove him wrong. _Which is exactly why you can't stop now!_ She told herself, pulling all leftover threads of courage together.

_He was just a man._

_A really, incredibly attractive man._

_But just a man._

_Nothing to be afraid of._

_Right? Right._

It was with that in mind, played over and over like a phonograph, that she approached, making sure to strut enough to make the white beaded fringe on the hem of her dress dance around the creamy thighs it barely covered. Skirts as short as their hair; that was the flappers' motto! _I'm a fierce, independent woman. I don't need a husband and I certainly don't need a man. It's just a little chat, nothing to get so worked up about. This is about you and proving you're empowered enough to make your own decisions. It has nothing to do with him._

So Caroline tossed back her head, chin stubbornly propped up, and swindled smoothly adjacent him, casting the man a sidelong glance even as she fell into immediate speech, half surprised she wasn't stumbling over her own words. It was in moments like this that Caroline showed her courage; the little ones, where fear could easily overcome the ability to persevere.

"So your cute, smooth-talking friend claims you're the shy sort, but I don't buy it." She came to rest elbow first against the bar, cushioning herself against one, and cocked up her head, tossing him a dazzlingly confident grin. But not just any grin; it was one of those 100-watt ones that any good showgirl could throw on in a second.

That didn't mean it was real.

"Oh no?" He said, smiling despite her first-class sass. Frankly, he enjoyed its bite just as he did her sight on his sore eyes. She was dazzling, aglow with the sort of inner radiance that couldn't be applied with any swipe of a make-up brush or dash of rouge. It was innate, inherent, and infinitely natural. Even her eyes held a fire, two tiny suns amidst skies of blue.

He was instantly smitten and she was, in this moment, the gravity to his soul.

"No, my guess is you try that 'ole innocent act out with all the dames." Caroline half twisted away from the bar and propped a now freed up hand on her hip, which jutted out in a physical show of direct strike to his expected protests.

She knew chaps like him. They'd say anything to trick a dame into trusting them.

But much to her surprise, he didn't try to hide the monster that he was. "Oh darling, trust me. Innocence is not me." Eyes flashed, the glimmer of danger an alluring glint that cast his cores intensely dark. "In fact, I'm the beast your momma warned you about." Heavy set lips quirked up at the corners, unable to help but be amused by just how on the head of the nail it all was, but he fancied she wasn't quite ready for the whole truth, so he kept that card tucked in his illusive hand—for the meantime. "But I reckon that even beasts among men can lose their wits around a pretty little lady," Klaus merely answered, ever tactful in tones that husked raw desire.

Frankly, he didn't expect she'd ever be ready to hear the truth. A shame, that.

Yet, part of him almost challenged her to prove keen and cunning enough to pick up on it, all on her lonesome. To accept it as a fact of life and not be consumed by irrational—okay, perhaps rational was the word—fear.

Stunned silent, Caroline rolled her eyes and huffed out a sigh that seemed to imply boredom. That wasn't exactly a lie; she _was_bored. With life, with her role in it—why else do you think she chased the thrills of flapper-dom?

"May I buy you a drink?" Much to his dismay, she was quick to refute his request with a stubborn nose drawn high and a promptly uttered, "I can buy my own drinks, thanks."

"May I ask you something then?" He commented with the tone of a gentleman, setting aside his empty glass to be abandoned for the tender's collecting and twisted on the swivel head of his seat to square off against her.

Caroline eyed him suspiciously at that, as though not quite sure what to conclude, and though she had half a right mind to refute him this luxury, curiosity—as the cat often did—won out, and she suspended him with a thoughtful frown. "I suppose there isn't any harm in that," she said, too stubborn to admit that it was in all rights a completely reasonable request.

Again, the Alpha studied her, sharply observant and concentrating intently on all she said and did, as though captivated by her very essence and that alone. Or, perhaps more accurately, he was smug in the victory he was already self-assured of winning. "Do you ever feel like you're utterly alone in this world, like a small insignificant spec amid a sea of greatness that takes no note?"

That cutting question hung in the air, so personal and to the point that it had her balk in surprise, just as he'd anticipated. Predictably, his own hypothesized insight pleased him, and again those thick lips twisted into a sated smirk that glowed with literal pride. "Just as I thought." He concluded, seemingly proud that they had more in common than the mutual lust he would've had to be a buffoon not to pick up on, as sizzling as that active chemistry between them was.

She scoffed, open-mouthed and indigent in that moment, outraged with fisted hands that flew to both hips, drawing away from the bar completely to glower hotly across at him._Just who did he think he was anyway? _"You thought nothing! No, for a matter of fact, I am far from lonely. I am the opposite of lonely. I have more company than I know how to keep!" Caroline insisted furiously, quick to defend herself before realizing the err in such a drawn statement and how it could be perceived to come across as promiscuous.

"Really?" Klaus eyebrows shot askew, high on his forehead in a totally amused, if only playful, shock, dimples emerging with his grin. "Now that surprises me. And here I was taking you for having more class than just another common whore of loose morale."

"Ugh. That's so not what I meant. I meant I don't need a man to be complete!" Resisting the childish impulse to blow raspberries over this logic of his, or stamp her feet for that matter, Caroline rolled those sea-blue eyes like a hurricane and settled for an unimpressed glare. "I'll have you know, I'm an independent woman!"

"Are you? Fantastic." Much to her disdain, he seemed unfazed by her confident refute; if anything, the cocky son of a bitch just seemed encouraged by it. Like she was some worthy challenge, or prize worthy of the steep input of effort. If anything, her words only confirmed that she didn't belong to anyone else, which in his eyes meant she was free for the taking. Caroline set her thinned lips into a firm frown and humphed, arms raising to cross in a sign of completely closed off against her chest—**l**ike she knew what he was thinking.

Intelligent enough to pick up on her irked disposition—and the fact that her patience was close to done with him—Klaus knew if he wanted to make a move, it was now or never. What really amazed him, though, was just how much he wanted to judging from the strike of nerves that tingled like bugs in his gut. It was a foreign feeling, this anxiety, and one he only ever associated with dealings involving his father.

But a girl?

Unfathomable.

"Now how would this totally independent and has-no-need-for-a-man woman like to dance?" He propositioned bluntly, refusing to think about the stirring effect she had on his soul.

"Are you mad?" Caroline stared at him as if he'd grown an extra head. It was a peculiar look that made him feel strangely uncomfortable. He wondered, as an off side, if that was its purpose—the look—or merely a consequence of his unjustified desire.

"What will it hurt? Just one? I promise I won't bite." _This time_. He held out his hand, extending the invitation despite her open scoffing. "Come on, love. I dare you." Klaus smiled wickedly, his lupine grin stretching out with abandon. "Take a chance. Come dance with the devil."

Still she was reluctant, and he was forced to consider compulsion as the only remaining option.

He would, if that was what it took. He certainly wouldn't take no for an answer.

But first, he decreed, perhaps a taste of reverse psychology would do the trick. Humans could be quite finicky that way, you know. Their agreement depended entirely on the fine particulars of how something was presented, and if she was anything like Stefan inferred, he knew just the thing to manipulate compliance out of her.

Or anything he wanted, for that matter.

"What's stopping you from having a little fun, eh? Are you really that concerned you'll fall head over heels after just one spin around the dance floor?" His sealed this with a wink, one that suggested he believed that as fact and rose from his perch to tower closer, boxing her in against the bar with arms that claimed a rest on either side. Standing close enough to touch, but not - by a hairs inch no more. "I mean, I know I'm a good dancer and all, but I think you're giving me a smidgeon too much credit, pet." Klaus looked her up and down with shameful scrutiny, the tension hot enough to burn. "So what do you say? Are you more like a chicken or a fox?"

Caroline was fuming, her independent streak a sizzle of emotions that ignited at his words just like he'd planned, the catalyst to both her fury and her acceptance, both that came in the form of a quickly raised hand, one that shoved square and firm against his sternum as she pushed him back toward the dance floor, grateful for the space that flooded between them. It gave her the edge to follow, stalking him down like a huntress marking her prey.

He let her do it, both pleasantly surprised and equally turned on by her dominate confidence. She did him with her eyes, and again he allowed it. Allowed her to fuck him that way. How could he not? Here was this meek little human woman—barely more then a girl—half his size that he could crush with a single squeeze, choke the life out in an instance, and she was shoving him backward toward the dance floor like a temptress who expected complete control.

No. Demanded it.

So he gave it to her, for now, like a puppy aiming to please.

With open arms, Klaus took her in gently until she was arranged against him in an expert stance, one hand on the jut of her shoulder and the other tenderly clutching her fingertips. His first thought was that her skin was incredibly soft, and his second that she smelled even better up close. Klaus couldn't help but close his eyes as he inhaled, sharp and swift from nostrils that flared wide, as if to accommodate a thicker waft.

His wolf couldn't help it; the beast wanted nothing more than to roll in her delectable scent, to claim her in his.

"You've got it all backwards, you know," Klaus said suddenly, closely watching her face while swirling her around. "Huh?" She said, refusing to meet his eyes and instead watching the walls swoosh by. This amused Klaus, who found himself in a strangely calm mood, perhaps one could even claim for the first time today. "Relationships." That caught her attention, like he thought it would, and despite her own best efforts, Caroline caught herself intrigued enough to look. Skeptically, of course. But all the same, it was eye contact and he took it.

Reveled in it.

He was getting to her; he could tell by the way she continued to scoff, tossing up insults as defense. Such as her halfheartedly uttered, "Oh really? This'll be good. Go on then. Try and convince me you're not attempting to play me." It only made him chuckle richly. Enjoying the ivy in her bark, he dipped her back, dimpling and laying on the charm. "I'm serious. You dames don't require men, not really."

Caroline just rolled her eyes and again looked away, but still he went on, determined to win her over before the end of the crooner's song. "You're competent enough to do just fine on your own. Hell, my sister certainly is." Again, this caught her attention just as he thought it would, and that damned lupine grin only widened as she glanced back toward him through thick, masking lashes. Like she was trying to hide the fact that she couldn't help but watch him. His own dark eyes danced, growing warmer as they locked with hers, intentionally silent until her curiosity won out enough that she couldn't help but engage in the intimate intercourse of interlocking eyes.

He took that as his cue, to deliver the final hook, line and sinker. "But every damned man _needs_ a good woman to keep him sane." The funny thing was, he almost meant it. There was something about her that seemed to keep him sane. He hadn't tolerated a woman this much since Tatia.

His earnestness must have hit home, or at least close to it, for he could feel her fingers tighten in her surprise, grappling at his shoulder like a life line. Just as he could see the look that reflected in the back of her irises change, from distantly cold to drawn in. Just as he could feel the way her heart changed its beat after an awkwardly stunned pause, and finally just as he saw her lips loosen from disdain and open ajar in desire.

Now it didn't matter how much she denied it.

She lusted after him.

He could feel it.

So he leaned in with every intention of claiming her lips in a way he'd only imagined over and over since first hearing that angelic vibrato.

But alas, this taste of ecstasy wasn't meant to be.

She stopped him at the last second with a quickly raised hand and fingers that tucked up to separate their lips just shy of any actual contact. Caroline was panting as she denied him, verbally, with a "sorry, Bub, but the bank's closed." It was hard to get out, and for once not because she was nervous, but because a part of her—a dangerous part of her—wanted to cash in on that attempted kiss.

It wanted to cash in so hard.

Feminist or not, she was still a woman who flew down the straight side of the barrel and his brand of deadly allure and dominate husky scent of cigars and whiskey mixed with sweat made certain parts stir hotly, even against all her own best advice.

So she disengaged, literally closing up before his eyes, that sparkle which had made those expressive eyes glow dying in a tragic act upon the stage of her gaze. She'd lost the grip on her confidence and staggered backward in response, an instinctual reflex before she fell in too deep.

He could see the fear play out across her eyes in that moment, and it was a sight that made his jaw lock as he too drew slightly back, as though struck, tension and insult riddling his mood instantly sour as the tidal wave of wrought emotions crashed down. Unrelenting.

Rejection had never been a hand he took well.

And so, in his silent agony he cursed all sorts of mental obscurities, but simply husked a request that softly stretched the distance. "I'll be requirin' a rain cheque then," he said, as best he could at playing along, hopeful of salvaging the scenario without having to resort to compulsion.

This was a prize that would taste sweeter when he won her will. "Forgive my forward indiscretions, love. Of course your lips are yours to give." Though admittedly, he much preferred the thought of them as his to take.

However, before she could reply, all hell broke loose.

Immediately, Klaus's head snapped toward the door the coppers had bust open, watching with growing concern as they began filing in, guns raised in sign of a full-out raid.

_Bloody horsefeathers!_ Mikael wasn't going to like hearing about this.

Instinctively, he grabbed for her but to his dismay and equal relief, she was gone.

Lost amid the chaos of shrieks and hollers, as the patrons rushed to escape and the bar keep and staff hastily tried to hide the alcohol, Klaus sniffed the air, trying to scent her out but it was no use, her unique smell too faint against the onslaught of sweat and fear that now caked the atmosphere in a heavy blanket of all out panic.

Satisfied that she was gone (and just in time too; because the Coppers were lighting the room with a good few rounds of Chicago lightening), Klaus turned to view the blue suits, yet still as the rattle and roar of bullets buzzed passed, he sent out a prayer to whatever the hell was willing to listen out there that his doll of a dame wouldn't get hit—before he leaped into the fray.

Bullets couldn't kill him, but damn did they hurt like the worst sort of annoyance.

As one tore through the flesh of his arm, Klaus realized his assumption hadn't been an accurate assessment.

They weren't bullets.

They were little chunks of wood, white ash judging from the feel and the way they burnt his muscle and flesh.

That was when it sank in like a downed ship.

Those weren't coppers, at least not any old ones.

They were hunters.

* * *

"A prized statue of a wolf was stolen from me," she said with a silky frown and pouting eyes that matched. "I _need_ you to find it."

His partner was dead and she wanted him to track down a bloody piece of more than likely just misplaced art?

_She has got to be kidding_.

"A statue? This thing better be made of freaking gold, doll-face, or you're wasting my damn time." His tone was bitter, biting with the edge of ever present cynicism, his usual disposition; it had been years since he'd felt genuinely happy—or even so much as content. "I don't run a lost and found service here, you know."

Ms. Wonderly scowled cattishly at this, hazel eyes thinned into a glare. "For your information, the piece is made of solid moonstone and is more precious than I think you capable of understanding." The vixen paused, tapping perfectly manicured fingers against her lips, as if in thought, before eyeing him with the undertone of judgment. "All you need to know is that it's simply irreplaceable." The woman waved her cigarette extender around at this, drawing strange patterns in smoke as she snapped, "Besides, what does it matter why I need it back? Find it for me and I will pay you handsomely." Here she cocked an eyebrow, challenging and conceited all in one. "That's how this is supposed to work, isn't it?"

Alaric sighed and slugged back against his seat with a heavy slump, digits tracing his jowel while puffing in thought, every now and then extending his neck back to add more carbon to the cloud that gathered about the room in a thick, mysterious haze.

After some time, he seemed to resign himself to the job, for he reached from his desk drawer a little notepad, and with it a silver pen. Truth be told, he really did need the money. And one way or another, he planned to find out what she knew about Isobel. "So you say. Now, Ms. Wonderly. Do you have any leads? Potential suspects? Anyone that has a reason of getting even, or would be under the impression you owe them?"

"Actually I do, Detective." With a self-satisfied smirk, the smooth as silk woman strutted back to the door, sated now that he'd agreed, in a way, to aid her request. The enigma, in fact, was quite proud of herself as she pulled open the glass and wood-paneled door, the one with his and Detective Salvatore's names etched in the glass, under the symbol of an eye in a triangle.

"Her name is Caroline Forbes." And with that and a vague, "I'll be in touch," Ms. Wonderly was gone, the ring of the door's bell twanging in her wake.

_Caroline Forbes,_ Alaric thought as he scrawled the name in a halfhearted script across the lined page. _I wonder if she has any relation to the Police Chief ..._

* * *

"Rebekah!" Stefan cried as chaos erupted all around them.

In a selfless act that surprised none as much as her, Stefan manhandled her tight against the core of his chest and turned so that his back acted as her shield.

In those moments that ticked by in slow motion, Rebekah knew she would never forget the look in his eyes as he lurched against her, face twisted in agony.

She smelled the blood instantly, as the flesh on his back was torn open from the littering of wooden pellets that carved out chunks of his skin and embedded themselves in a grotesque display down his spine. His grip on her loosened, and she feared he was a goner. But to her utter amazement, he gritted his teeth and from somewhere found the strength to scoop her up, stumbling with her toward the door.

She'd never had a human risk their life for her before.

"Stefan!" She cried, for the first time ever struck with the fear that a mortal might die.

He got her out the backdoor before slumping to the ground, a bloody mess like Damon had.

Rebekah curled over him, stricken with ugly sobs.

This was all her fault.

* * *

**AUTHORS' NOTES**: Thank you so much for the continued support! As always, let us know what you think, so we can tailor this story to you, our audience.


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